


Night of Fire - Charlie

by thoseindarkness



Series: Gotham Short (Night of Fire) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 09:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoseindarkness/pseuds/thoseindarkness
Summary: NOT RELATED TO THE "GOTHAM" SERIES ON NBCGotham is a strange place to live. Dangerous. Violent. Corrupt. Filled with colorful villains and dark heroes. Why would anyone live there? Well, why don't you ask them? Night of Fire tells the story of what happens to ordinary people when extraordinary things happen in Gotham.





	Night of Fire - Charlie

_My mom and I came to Gotham City when I was eight. After my parents split she decided she’d had enough of the Big Apple. She wanted a change of pace. Metropolis was too bright for her. She was a creature of the night. That was twenty-three years ago._

_I grew up in and around bars my whole life. When we came Momma became known for her bar Average Joe’s. The bar itself was nothing to write home about. It was the history of the place. In fifteen years, she had nine different locations. Sometimes the crazies blew the place up. Sometimes the mob just tried to wring too much blood out of you._

_Momma was a trooper though. She taught me: “you vote with your feet.” If she didn’t like what they were charging. She moved. The legend sprung up around it. The woman who told the mob to go fuck themselves. When she died I took over. Kept the placing going for a few years until I had to vote with my feet. That’s when I decided it was time for a change. I made my own place. The first one didn’t stick, but I got back on the horse. Something closer to my heart. Momma’s name was Josephine, hence the Joe’s. Mine is Charlotte. My place is Cosmic Charlie’s._

***

Charlie pulled off the highway at thirty-eighth and hung a left onto Judge. Otisburg was a middle ground. Not too dangerous, not too safe. She passed the cliché Italian restaurant that was the local mob front. They ran this part of town. Had for as long as she’d been there. Down Granton she knew there was a dealer that worked the area around North City Park and another that worked around the stadium on the circle.

She also passed two side streets where the unmarked vehicles were hiding. Everyone knew the sixth floor of the Smith building on Hazel was CIA. Since they don’t operate on home turf, no one paid them any mind. Balanced. A little bit dirty. A little clean. A whole lotta laundered. It was Gotham after all.

She pulled off Judge at forty-fourth and parked it behind the meat packing warehouse. The security guard watched her car for her. He waved as she darted across the street. She paused long enough to look up at the old brick building that was her place of business. The first floor was The Burg Bagels Kosher Deli and Bakery. Saul Perini had owned the place for decades. He stuck everything out. He’d rented the space upstairs to her six years back. The agreement was, she paid her own pound of flesh to the mob. It worked for her.

Charlie checked her watch as she approached the door. Saul’s grizzled face peeked out from behind the curtain over the door.

“Come in kiddo.” He hurried her in, locking the door after them.

He made his money at breakfast and lunch. Arriving early in the morning and leaving a few hours after the rush. Charlie checked her watch. It was already five. Saul darted behind the counter to get her sandwich and her weekly order of pretzels. He tacked it onto her rent.

“Look, you’re _mishpokhe_ [1] so I’m gonna warn you. They got a new collector wandering around. _Schmuck_ [2] tried to hit me up for extra cash. Watch yourself.”

“What?” Charlie gaped at him. Saul was a fixture. He’d lasted longer than most mob bosses. No one fucked with him. “What’d you do?”

“I paid him to go away, then I called my handler.” He handed her the sandwich. There was a number written on the butcher paper. A number she’d memorized months ago. He tapped the top. “I won’t get involved in your shit, but you call this number if he goes swinging that _schmuck_ [2] of his around. You get me?”

She smiled. “Thanks Saul.”

“What are friends for?” He shrugged. “Now scram. I ain’t getting any younger.” 

“No kidding.” She jabbed.

“Get outta here!” He chuckled.

Charlie’s trash bag sized order of pretzel chunks was waiting for her in the service elevator. She rolled three kegs out of the walk-in and rode the elevator up. The door opened to her domain. It smelled like strong chemicals and under that old beer. In the dining room she looked up at the black ceiling with its press on stars and white paint splatter. It wasn’t exactly a theme. More of a feature. She took a deep breath. She was home.

***

_Gotham is a lot like New York City. People don’t realize that. They see the crime rates or titles like ‘murder capital of the US’ and they think the place turns into a zoo after midnight. It’s not like that. I get a steady stream of customers in and out all night. Some people get off in the post-rush hour time slot. Another trickle between eleven and one. Then the late, late, shifters around three am. Everyone gets out of work some time. Enough of them are thirsty so I keep the doors open all night._

_My first few years I thought football was the money maker. I even had a house fantasy league. Everyone wants to beat the house. A few years back the Knights started sucking donkey balls and the team at Gotham U’s never really been any good. I tried everything I could think of. Hockey, baseball, basketball. Nothing stuck._

_Then the young money started to flood Burnley. Tech startups. Hedge fund kids looking for a new neighborhood to build in their image. Burnley gentrified. The prices start climbing. Shit holes got bought out and converted to condo. Some jackasses even started calling it Burnside. Punks. The Hispanic community that had been there since the eighties began to migrate into the north side of Newton and Otisburg and I found my next money maker. Soccer._

_Did you know those games are on at all hours of the day? I can keep a constant rotation of matches going on multiple screens from eight at night to about five in the morning. It’s perfect. It comes with a steady stream of low rent locals who can’t afford the cable sports packages, but always buy at least one beer while they watch. They’ve become my new regulars. I even kinda like Real Madrid, but don’t tell the Argentinian’s that._

_And there it is. Criminals aren’t the only ones walking the streets after dark. The people that keep the system running are out there too. We just learned to keep our heads down. Our mouths shut. Gotham is like anywhere else you live. You figure out how it works and where you fit in. Simple._

***

By a quarter to five the bar was mostly clear. If the place was empty at five thirty, Charlie would close up early. If it wasn’t she stayed open until six. Last call wasn’t really a thing in Gotham. Sure, in the fancy parts of town there might be one. Not where the working class lived.

_“Cuídate amor.”_ [3] Ernesto said as he walked his cousin to the door.

_“Cierto!”_ [4] Charlie said in her Anglo-accented Spanish. “Night Ernie.” 

_“Que pasa pendejo!_ [5] Where you been man, we were starting…” She heard Ernie say out on the landing before the front door closed.

A new figure appeared in the dim light and she couldn’t quite make him out. Charlie sighed into her empty bar. A customer was a customer. She could at least start cleaning.

“Get a better goalie.” The newcomer said through the slowly opening door.

A smile crept across Charlie’s lips as she heard Ernie’s cousin holler _“Hijo de la gran puta!”_ [6]

“If you knew my mother, you wouldn’t say such nice things about her.” JP yelled back. He chuckled as the door fell closed behind him. “Evening Charlie.”

“Hey there JP. What’ll it be tonight? Beer or bourbon?”

“Bourbon.” He replied. 

“That bad?” She asked.

“You hear about the explosion on the docks?” He asked.

JP was one of her semi-regulars. He came in every few weeks. Always right before close. Sometimes a couple nights in a row. Sometimes not. Two years running. He was one those good ones. Polite enough. Good sense of humor, kinda dry. Never got shit faced. Never made a mess. Nice to look at. He broke up fights without making them worse. He even helped her clean up when the place was empty.

He claimed to be a truck driver. Knew enough about the industry to be believable. He even had a CDL in his wallet. He was lying and they both knew it. Then again, he was hardly the only guy in Gotham who didn’t talk about how he made his money. As long as he didn’t bring his shit into Charlie’s she didn’t care. His money was green and the bank hadn’t rejected it yet.

“About? No. We heard it. We felt it. You could see the fireball from here.” She placed a rocks glass on the bar top and smiled. “No evacuation. No close.” She poured him a Bourbon, neat. “Were you in the area?”

“Closer than I’d like.” He emptied the glass then turned his head to show her the bit of blood drying in his ear. “Shock wave.”

“Should you be drinking?” She began to slide the glass away. His hand covered hers.

“I’m fine. Already got checked out. No concussion.” He chuckled. “I’ll take another though.”

She hesitated.

“I promise you Charlie. I’m fine.” He squeezed her hand before retracting his. “One more and a beer. Then I’m done.”

“Let me guess.” She put the spout to his glass and paused before pouring. “You’ve had worse.”

He looked over each of his shoulders. When he’d ‘checked’ the room was clear, he winked. “Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes as she poured his beer, but only foam came out. “Damn.” She emptied the glass and tried the next tap. It too, was near empty. She’d killed the last one halfway into the night. “I got nothing left on draught.”

JP shrugged. “What else you got?”

She gave him a list of the shit beer she sold in bottles and cans. He made a face. “What do you want? That’s what people drink around here.” Her face scrunched up. “Actually…”

“Actually?”

“Help me get these kegs into the back elevator and there’s a microbrew IPA in it for you.”

He banged his hand on the bar top. “Done!” Knocking back his second bourbon he rounded the bar to help with the kegs. They were on their last one when the door opened again.

“Who the fuck is coming in now?” Charlie looked at her watch, it was five twenty-nine. She wrapped her knuckles on the mini keg on the shelf. “Grab this, will you? I’ll get them out of here.”

JP angled the last keg into place in the service elevator. He heard mumbling in the dining room. The register opening. He hefted the mini keg onto his shoulder and moved back into the bar.

“Who the fuck is this?” The muscle asked as JP came out of the back.

JP immediately noticed the mailing envelope on the table, fat with cash, and the second man by the door.

“No one.” Charlie said. “He don’t know shit. Isn’t that right JP?”

“That’s right Charlie.” He said placing the mini keg under the bar and busying himself with nozzle.

“Who’s here JP?” She asked.

“Just you and me Charlie.”

“See, don’t know shit.”

“I don’t like him.” The muscle said.

“Lucky for me, you don’t get to choose who I take home at the end of the night.” She spat.

The muscle planted his dumb ass on a stool. “I’m thirsty.”

Charlie felt JP tense next to her. She reached under the bar and retrieved two styrofoam cups. She filled them with ice, vodka and tonic, covered them with lids and inserted straws.

“Here you go.” She placed them on the table in front of him. “On the house.”

“What’s this?” He asked, perturbed.

“It’s a to-go cup. Take it and go. We’re closed.”

The muscle held the envelope in his hand, felt the weight. “This seems a bit light to me.”

JP was glad none of them could see his face. He took a deep breath and waited. This was Charlie’s bar. He would follow her lead.

Charlie smiled. “You’re new, so I’ll explain this to you in small words sweetheart. You don’t have the first idea what’s in that envelope because it’s not your business to know. You’re just the delivery guy. I pay my bills. On time. In full. Have for six years. You’re gonna take your drinks and your girlfriend over there and you’re gonna give that money to your boss. In exchange, I won’t say anything to him about what just came out of your mouth cause it won’t ever happen again.”

“Are you threatening me bitch?”

“No. I’m explaining it to you because you seem to be confused about how this works. Either you shoot me and your boss whacks you for harming someone under his protection. Or you burn my bar down and your boss whacks you for harming someone under his protection. Or you take that money and go.”

“You’re not understanding me. The price went up.” The muscle stood.

“No. It didn’t. If the price goes up, your boss sends someone else to tell me so. Not you. Which means you’re trying to make a little extra. Your boss won’t like that. Or the middle man you report to is trying to make a little extra and he sent you here to get fucked for it. Your boss won’t like that.” She scowled.

“Either way your boss won’t be happy, but if you don’t believe me why don’t you ask him what happened to the last guy who tried to fuck me without my consent.”

The man by the door chuckled. “What happened to him Charlie?”

That one she recognized. The look on his face said he didn’t like the new guy anymore then she did. “He found out I had teeth and he didn’t like where I keep ‘em.”

“Shut up Luke.” The new guy said. “Lady I don’t think you understand…”

Charlie cut him off. “Your boss doesn’t pay you to think. He pays you to deliver. I’ve been in this racket since before you were an itch in your father’s crotch boy. Take your money and get the fuck out of my bar. Now. Or I’ll change my mind about calling your daddy and telling him what went down here tonight.”

They stood across the bar. Eyes locked. The tension in the room built. JP slammed the door of the cooler as he stood. The muscle jumped. Charlie didn’t even flinch.

“This ain’t over bitch.” The muscle stuttered.

“It’s over for one of us.” She smiled sweetly. “Have a good day.”

The moment they were both out of the bar Charlie let out a sigh. She walked calmly to the door, checked that they were gone and locked up.

“You shouldn’t antagonize them like that.” JP said, pouring a drink from the keg. “It’ll only make it worse.”

She sat in front of the bar. “When did you become an expert in protection rackets?”

“I’ve heard a thing or two.” He said, passing her a beer.

“You’re so full of shit.” She shook her head.

“So what happened to the last one?” JP asked.

“It wasn’t actually the last one. I didn’t mind the last one. It was the one before. Came around this way said the price had gone up, but the price had just gone up a month before. Saul and I pushed back. He got caught trying to line his own pockets. Whoever’s calling the shots didn’t like it much. Guy disappeared. He washed up off Amusement Mile a few weeks later.”

“Not to pry, but why put with it?” JP asked. “I mean. You don’t have to pay them.”

“Yeah I do.” She replied. “Look it’s simple, if I don’t want to pay the protection money I don’t run a bar in Gotham. If I want to run a bar in Gotham, I pay the protection money. I’ve been in bars my whole life. Never once did I or my Momma before me get to skip this step for more than a few months between gang wars. You don’t like your warlord? Vote with your feet. Move.”

“Why don’t you?” He asked. “Move? Get out of Gotham? Leave this cesspit in your rearview and start over somewhere your bar won’t blow up on a Tuesday?”

“Does that place exist?” She chuckled. “I’m pretty sure aliens fall from the sky all over this world, not just Gotham. Blood money’s the least of my problems really. It doesn’t hurt me anyway. I come out ahead. That’s all that matters.”

JP chuckled. “Yeah. I’ve seen the ‘special’ top shelf bottles you give the mob boys from. You mix them with the wells. Not watered down, but enough to stay ahead of the loss of income.”

She frowned.

“I’ll tell you a secret, but you gotta promise not to tell anyone.” JP’s eyes sparkled mischievously.

Charlie frowned deeper.

He leaned in and whispered. “My mom used to work at Average Joe’s.”

She pulled back. Studied every inch of his face. Then she saw it. The dark-haired woman that worked for her mother when Joe’s was in Midtown, near the south side waterfront. The woman had a habit. Josephine caught her stealing from the tip jar. She had a little kid who she hid in the back of house sometimes.

“Holy shit. You’re Cat’s kid?”

He nodded. “Guilty.”

“Well damn.” She shook her head. “Funny old world isn’t it.”

“Sometimes.” He smiled.

“To Cat.” She raised her glass, but JP shook his head.

“No, to Joe.” He tapped his glass against hers.

“Why now? Why wait two years to tell me?”

He shrugged. “Every once in a while, I ask myself why I stay here. Why I put up with it.” He smiled into his glass. “Then I come across someone like you. You remind me that people here are resilient. That it’s not all bad. There’s a give and take in everything.” He shrugged. “Who wants the quiet life anyway?”

“Well JP, you’re always welcome here.” She took his near empty glass. “Another drink?”

He nodded. Watched her as she rounded the bar to the tap.

“Now, I may not know shit.” JP said. “And you can correct me if I heard this wrong. Might just be the combination of percussive force and alcohol, but didn’t you say something about taking me home?”

***

_Gotham really is a funny city. Sometimes it gives you a gift. A welcome blast from the past. Sometimes it takes away. A delivery guy figuring out his mid-level boss was trying to fuck him, so he came back to set the place on fire three days later. Sometimes it does both._

_It took Saul six months and a damn good lawyer to get his insurance money from the fire, but he’d been in that one spot with no incidents for thirty-seven years. He’d dodged pretty much every calamity that had ever befallen this god forsaken city. So, when he filed his only claim in nearly forty years, he wanted his fucking money. With the addition of my alcohol and loss of income (which I mostly legally declared) the payout was enormous. Yeah, I struggled for a year, but Saul retired and gave me more than my fair share of the settlement._

_I used that to buy a slice of my own smack dab in the in Midtown. Nice area. Nice little condo for myself. Nice new bar. I still keep the same hours. I still play soccer all night. I still do it on my own. The only difference? Surprise! Surprise! No mob. I can see Wayne Tower from the front door of my bar. I guess the lesser denizens of Gotham are afraid to do anything stupid in the sight of the big bad bat’s sugar daddy._

_As a retiree Saul was a hell of a lot more fun. He came into the bar every night. Still baked pretzels for me every week. Said old dogs like him never really retire. He was a good guy. Shocked the shit out of me when he died the night after my one year anniversary in my new space. It wasn’t his death really, it was that he left me everything. He hated his kids. They abandoned him so he conspicuously forgot them in his will._

_And because I can hear you thinking it: Yes, JP is still a semi-regular. No, I’m not going to tell you whether or not I took him home. I leave that to your imagination._

_Gotham gives and it takes. Take it for what it is._

**Author's Note:**

>  **[1] “mishpokhe” | Yiddish for family.**  
>  Not implying that they are blood related but that he considers her family.
> 
> **[2] “schmuck” | Yiddish for dick (via years of linguistic evolution).**  
>  In common vernacular, it’s used to refer to someone who is an idiot or fool. It’s (in theory) a stronger derogatory term for Jews and Yiddish speakers than it is to the average American user. I’ve only ever heard used to directly refer to the male anatomy once by a second gen Yiddish speaker. I liked it, so I lifted it. However, I would be remiss if I didn’t explain it’s not a common way to use the word.
> 
> **[3] “Cuídate amor.” | Literal translation: “Take care of yourself love.”**
> 
> **[4] “Cierto!” | Literal translation: “Certain.” Or “Sure.”**  
>  She’s agreeing with Ernie. Effectively, saying “Will do.” This would not be the most effective way to say it in Spanish, but she’s not a native speaker. It shows effort, but not understanding.
> 
> **[5] “Que pasa pendejo!” | Literal translation: “What’s up pubic hair!”**  
>  Your country of origin determines how serious the word is. In some Caribbean and South American countries, it’s not that bad. In others, it is a very insulting thing to say. It can mean idiot, fool, dumb ass. It can also be used to describe a person as unscrupulous, but not necessarily unintelligent. Know your audience when using this word. Example: To Cubans it is a very serious slight. Call a man a pendjo and you’re going to throw down. Puerto Ricans can go either way. Like bitch, it can be an insult or a term of endearment (to people with foul mouths). Think of it like “I love this bitch.”
> 
> In this context Ernie is happy to see JP and is being welcoming.
> 
> **[6] “Hijo de la gran puta!” | Literal translation: “Son of the great whore.”**  
>  ‘Puta’ literary translates to whore but ‘hijo de puta’ is more like saying ‘son of a bitch.’ The insult is obvious. The expression can be upgraded for more dramatic effect. By adding ‘la gran’ into the expression you are saying your mother wasn’t just any whore she was the biggest, nastiest, whoriest whore that ever whored. It’s a bit like saying ‘You motherfucking son of a bitch.’ Neat, right?
> 
> Bonus: Re-read JP’s response.


End file.
